
Class. 



TT?g4 



Book 







THE POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



DR. GOLDSMITH. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



OLFVtlR GOLDSMITH, M. B. 



WITH AN ACCOUNT 



HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

UBLISHED BY ROBERT JOHNSON, NO. 2, NORTH 
THIRD STREET. 
II. MAXWELL, PRINTER. 



1803. 



1H : 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
ACCOUNT of the Life and Writings of the 

Author vii 

• 'he Traveller, a Poem 3 

l/ 'he Deserted Village, a Poem 33 

y/ Tie Haunch of Venison, a Poetical Epistle 61 

%/ etaliation, a Poem . 71 

v Letter addressed to the Printer of the St. 

James's Chronicle 89 

.Tie Hermit, a Ballad 91 

"he Double Transformation, a Tale... 103 

he Gift 109 

Tie Logicians refuted Ill 

)n a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning... 115 

I new Simile, in the manner of Swift 116 

ilegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 120 

The Clown's Reply 123 

itanzas on Woman 124 

Description of an Author's Bed-chamber 125 

tfr. Boswell's Letter , 127 



VI CONTENTS. 

Song 129 

Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 130 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 131 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon 132 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 133 

Sonnet 135 

Song, from the Oratorio of the Captivity 136 

Song isr 

Prologue, written and spoken by the Poet Labe- 

rius .?. 138 

Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy , 140 

Epilogue* 143 

Epilogue to the Sisters 146 



1898. 




SOME ACCOUNT 



OF 



THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. 



Oliver Goldsmith was the youngest of the 
four sons of the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, and was 
born the 29th of November, in the year 1731, at 
Femes, in Ireland. Having passed some time in the 
study of the classics, under the tuition of Mr. Hughes, 
on the 11th of June 1744 he was admitted a sizer in 
Trinity college, Dublin. 

His genius, which afterwards broke forth with 
such distinguished lustre, had not yet unfolded itself; 

we cannot find that, during his continuance at the 
ersity, he manifested such appearances of men- 



sucn 



Vlll LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

tal vigour as to entitle him to a pre-eminence over 
the generality of his fellow-students. In February 
1749, however, which was two years after the regu- 
lar course of those things, he obtained the degree of 
Bachelor of Arts. 

Having, while he remained in Dublin, turned his 
thoughts to the profession of physic, and attended 
some courses of anatomy, in the year 1751 he visited 
Edinburgh, and applied himself to the study of the 
different branches of medicine under the respective 
professors in that university. His thoughtless though 
beneficent disposition soon involved him in difficul- 
ties. He had made himself responsible for the debt 
of a fellow-student, who being either unable or un- 
willing to discharge it, Mr. Goldsmith was obliged 
abruptly to leave Scotland, in order to avoid the hor- 
rors of a prison. 

In the beginning of the year 1754 he arrived at 
Sunderland ; but being pursued by a legal process, on 
account of the debt we have just mentioned, he was 
arrested. At Edinburgh he had formed an intimacy 
with Mr. Lauchlin Maclaine and Dr. Sleigh, who 
still resided in the college at that place ; and these 
gentlemen being informed of his unhappy situation, 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. ' IX 

presently afterwards interposed, and set him at li- 
berty. 

This embarrassment being surmounted, he em- 
barked on board a Dutch ship, and arrived at Rot- 
terdam; whence he went to Brussels, then visited 
great part of Flanders; and afterwards, at Stras- 
bourg and Louvain, where he continued some time, 
he obtained the degree of Bachelor in Physic. From 
thence he went to Geneva, in company with an Eng- 
lish gentleman. 

It is a circumstance worth recording, that he had 
so strong a propensity to see different countries, men 
and manners, that even the necessity of walking on 
foot could not deter him from this favourite pursuit. 
His German flute, on which he played tolerably well, 
frequently supplied him with the means of subsist- 
ence, and his learning procured him a favourable 
reception at most of the religious houses he visited. 
He himself tells us, that whenever he approached a 
peasant's cottage, he played one of his most merry 
tunes, and that generally procured him not only a 
lodging, but subsistence for the next day. This, how- 
ever, was not the case with the rich, who generally 
despised both the music and the performer. 



X LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH, 

Soon after his arrival at Geneva, he met with a 
young man, who, by the death of an uncle, was become 
possessed of a considerable fortune, and to whom Mr. 
Goldsmith was recommended for a travelling com- 
panion As avarice was the prevailing principle of 

this young man, it cannot be supposed he was long 
pleased with his preceptor, whose habits and turn of 
mind were so contrary to his own. 

Our author, during his residence at the college of 
Edinburgh, had given marks of his rising geniusfor poe- 
try, which Switzerland greatly contributed to bring to 
maturity. It was here he wrote the first sketch of his 
Traveller, which he sent to his brother Henry, a 
clergyman in Ireland, who, despising fame and for- 
tune, had retired with an amiable wife, en an income 
of only forty pounds per annum, to pass a life of hap- 
piness and obscurity, 

Mr. Goldsmith and his pupil continued together 
until they arrived at the south of France, where, on 
a disagreement, they parted, and our author was left 
to struggle with all the difficulties that a man could 
experience, who was in a state of poverty, in a foreign 
country, without friends. Yet, notwithstanding all his 
difficulties, his ardour for travelling was not abated; 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XI 

and he persisted in his scheme, though he was fre- 
quently obliged to be beholden to his flute and the pea- 
sants. At length, his curiosity being gratified, he bent 
his course towards England, and arrived at Dover 
about the beginning of the Winter in 1758. 

On his arrival at London, his situation was by no 
means enviable. It is true, that he brought with him 
a strong mind, plentifully stored with images; but 
upon reviewing the state of his finances, he found 
them to consist of only a few half-pence. What must 
be the gloomy apprehensions of a man in so forlorn a 
situation, and an utter stranger in the metropolis ! He 
applied to several apothecaries for employment ; but 
his awkward appearance, and his broad Irish accent, 
were so much against him, that he met only with ridi- 
cule and contempt. At last, however, merely through 
motives of humanity, he was taken notice of by a chy- 
mist, who employed him in his laboratory. 

He continued in this situation till he was informed 
that his old friend Dr. Sleigh was in London. He 
then quitted the chymist, and lived some time upon 
the liberality of the doctor ; but, disliking a life of de- 
pendence on the generosity of his friend, and being 
unwilling to be burdensome to him, he soon accepted 



Xll LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

an offer that was made him, of assisting the late Rev. 
Dr. Milner, in the education of young gentlemen at 
his academy at Peckham. During the time he re- 
mained in this situation, he gave much satisfaction to 
his employer ; but as he had obtained some reputation 
from criticisms he had wi itten in the Monthly Re vicAV, 
he eagerly engaged in the compilation of that work, 
with Mr. Griffiths, the principal proprietor. He 
accordingly returned to London, took an obscure lodg- 
ing in Green- Arbour Court, in the Old Bailey, and 
commenced a professed author. 

This was in the year 1759, before the close of which 
he produced several works, particularly a periodical 
publication, called The Bee, and An Enquiry into the 
present State of polite Learning in Europe. He also 
became a writer in the Public Ledger, in which his 
Citizen of the World originally appeared under the 
title of Chinese Letters. His reputation extended so 
rapidly, and his connections became so numerous, that 
he was soon enabled to emerge from his mean lodg- 
ings in the Old Bailey to the politer air in the Temple, 
where he took chambers in 1762, and lived in a more 
creditable maimer. At length, his reputation was 
fully established by the publication of The Traveller, 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. Xlll 

in the year 1765. His Vicar of Wakefield succeeded 
his Traveller, and his History of England was followed 
by the performance of his comedy of the Good-na- 
tured Man, all which contributed to place him in the 
first rank of the writers of his age. 

The Good-natured Man was acted at Covent-Gar- 
den theatre in the year 1768. Many parts of this play 
exhibit the strongest indications of our author's comic 
talents. There is perhaps no character on the stage 
more happily imagined, and more highly finished, 
than Croaker's; nor do we recollect so original and 
successful an incident, as that of the letter, which he 
conceives to be the composition of the incendiary, and 
feels a thousand ridiculous horrors in consequence of 
his absurd apprehension. The audience, however, 
having been just before exalted on the sentimental 
stilts of False Delicacy, a comedy by Mr. Kelly, they 
regarded a few scenes in Mr. Goldsmith's piece as 
too low for their entertainment, and therefore treated 
them with unjustifiable severity. Nevertheless the 
Good-natured Man succeeded, though in a degree 
inferior to its merit. The prologue to it, which is 
excellent, was written by the author's friend, Dr. 
Samuel Johnson. 



XIV LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

In 1773, the comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, or 
The Mistakes of a Night, was acted at Covent-Gar- 
den theatre. This piece was considered as a farce 
by some writers ; even if so, it must be ranked among 
the farces of a man of genius. One of the most ludi- 
crous circumstances it contains, which is that of the 
robbery, is said to be borrowed from Albumazar. 

Mr. Colman, who was then a manager of the thea- 
tre, had very little opinion of this piece, and made so 
keen a remark on it while in rehearsal, that the Doc- 
tor never forgave him: it however succeeded con- 
trary to Mr. Colman's expectations, being received 
with uncommon applause by the audience. The suc- 
cess of this comedy produced a very illiberal and per- 
sonal attack, which appeared in one of the public 
prints, of which the following is a copy : 

" TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

" Vous vous noyez en vanitc. 
« Sir, 

" The happy knack which you have learnt of puf- 
fing your own compositions, provokes me to come 
forth. You have not been the editor of newspapers 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XV 

and magazines, not to discover the trick of literary 
humbug. But the gauze is so thin, that the very foolish 
part of the world see through it, and discover the 
Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your poetic 
vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. Would 
man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told, 
that for hours the great Goldsmith will stand survey- 
ing his grotesque oranthotan's figure in a glass? Was 

but the lovely H k as much enamoured, you would 

not sigh, my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity 
is preposterous. How will this same bard of Bedlam 
ring the changes in praise of Goldy ! But what has he 
to be either proud or vain of? The Traveller isaflimsy 
poem, built upon false principles ; principles diame- 
trically opposite to liberty. What is the Good-natured 
Man but a poor water-gruel, dramatic dose ? What is 
the Deserted Village but a pretty poem of easy num- 
bers, without fancy, dignity, genius, or fire ? And pray 
what may be the last speaking pantomime, so much 
praised by the Doctor himself, but an incoherent piece 
of stuff, the figure of a woman, with a fish's tail, with- 
out plot, incident, or intrigue ? We are made to laugh 
at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry 
for wit, and grimace for humour ; wherein every scene 



XVI LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws 
of nature and of the drama, viz. two gentlemen come 
to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, Sec. 
and take it for an inn. The one is intended as a lover 
to the daughter ; he talks with her for some hours, 
and when he sees her again in a different dress, he 
treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she squinted. He 
abuses the master of the house, and threatens to kick 
him out of his own doors. The squire, whom we are 
told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible be- 
ing of the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by 
bidding his mother lie close behind a bush, persuading 
her, that his father, her own husband, is a highway- 
man, and that he is come to cut their throats ; and to 
give his cousin an opportunity to go off, he drives his 
mother over hedges, ditches, and through ponds. 
There is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural stroke 
in the whole play, but the young fellow giving the 
stolen jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the 
landlady. That Mr. Colman did no justice to this 
piece, I honestly allow ; that he told all his friends 
that it would be damned, I positively aver; and from 
such ungenerous insinuations, without a dramatic 
merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is now the ton 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XV11 

to go to see it, though I never saw a person, that 
either liked it or approved it, any more than the ab- 
surd plot of Home's tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Gold- 
smith, correct your arrogance, reduce your vanity, 
and endeavour to believe, as a man, you are of the 
plainest sort, and as an author, but a mortal piece of 
mediocrity. 

*' Brisez le miroir infidele, 
" Qui vous cache la vevite. 

" Tom Tickle." 

The illiberality of this epistle will be apparent to 
every reader. Dr. Goldsmith, immediately on its 
appearance, went to the publisher's house, and, after 
having argued on the malignity of this unmerited 
attack on his character, he applied his cane about his 
shoulders with all his might ; the publisher, however, 
thought it necessary to stand in his own defence. It 
is not easy to say when or how this combat would have 
ended, had not Dr. Kenrick, who was sitting in a pri- 
vate room, stepped forward and parted them. Dr. 
Kenrick was said to be the author of this severe attack 

on the Doctor's character ; but other proofs of the 
c 



XV111 LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

malignity of this man's heart might easily be pro- 
duced. 

After this rencontre, several paragraphs appeared 
in the newspapers, severely censuring Dr. Goldsmith 
for beiting a man in his own house. In consequence 
of this, on the 31st of March, 1773, he published the 
following address in the Daily Advertiser : 

" TO THE PUBLIC. 

" Lest it should be supposed, that I have been wil- 
ling to correct in others an abuse, of which I have been 
guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that in all my 
life I never wrote, or dictated, a single paragraph, 
letter, or essay, in a newspaper, except a few moral 
essays under the character of a Chinese, about ten 
years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to which I 
signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If the 
liberty of the press therefore has been abused, I have 
had no hand in it. 

" I have always considered the press as the pro- 
tector of our freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable 
of uniting the weak against the encroachments of 
power. What concerns the public most properly ad- 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XIX 

mits of a public discussion. But of late, the press has 
turned from defending public interest, to making in- 
roads upon private life ; from combating the strong, 
to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too 
obscure for its abuse, and the protector is become the 
tyrant of the people. In this manner the freedom of 
the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own 
dissolution ; the great must oppose it from principle, 
and the weak from fear ; till at last every rank of 
mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, con- 
tent with security from its insults. 

" How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which 
all are indiscriminately abused, and by which vice 
consequently escapes in the general censure, I am 
unable to tell : all I could wish is, that, as the law 
gives us no protection against the injury, so it should 
give calumniators no shelter after having provoked 
correction. The insults which we receive before the 
public, by being more open, are the more distressing; 
by treating them with silent contempt, we do not pay 
a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world. By 
recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the 
weakness of the law, which only serves to increase 
our mortification by failing to relieve us. In short, 



XX LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

every man should singly consider himself as a guar- 
dian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his in- 
fluence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its 
licentiousness becoming at last the grave of its free- 
dom. 

" Oliver Goldsmith." 

In 1772 was performed at Covent-Garden theatre, 
for the benefit of Mr. Quick, The Grumbler, a fairce, 
altered from Sedley, this was the last of our author's 
theatrical pieces : its success was not very flattering ; 
for it was acted no more than once, and has never 
appeared in print. 

It is certain that the Doctor might, with a little 
attention to prudence and economy, have placed him- 
self in a state above want and dependance. He is 
said to have acquired, in one year, one thousand eight 
hundred pounds ; and the advantages arising from his 
writings were very considerable for many years before 
his death. But these were rendered useless by an 
improvident liberality, which prevented his distin- 
guishing properly the objects of his generosity ; and an 
unhappy attachment to gaming, with the arts of which 
he was very little acquainted. He therefore remained 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XXI 

at times as much embarrassed in his circumstances, 
as when his income was in its lowest and most preca- 
rious state. 

He had been for some years, at different times, 
affected with a violent strangury, which contributed 
to embitter the latter part of his life, and which, 
united with the vexations he suffered upon other oc- 
casions, brought on a kind of habitual despondency. 
In this condition he was attacked by a nervous fever, 
which, in spite of the most able medical assistance, 
terminated in his dissolution on the 4th day of April, 
1774, in the forty-third year of his age. 

His remains were deposited in the burial-ground 
belonging to the Temple, and a monument hath since 
been erected to his memory, in Westminster-Abbey, 
at the expense of a literary club to which he belonged. 
It consists of a large medallion, exhibiting a good like- 
ness of the Doctor, embellished with literary orna- 
ments ; underneath which is a tablet of white marble, 
with the following Latin inscription, written by his 
friend Dr. Samuel Johnson : 



XX11 LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH, 

OLIVARTI GOLDSMITH, 

Poetse, Physici, Historici ; 
Qui nullum fere scribendi Genus 

Non tetigit, 

Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit : 

Sive Risus essent movendi, 

Sive Lacrimse : 

Affectuum potens, at lenis Dominator ; 

Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis ; 

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus; 

Hoc Monumento Memoriam coluit 

Sodalium Amor, 

Amicorum Fides, 

Lectorum Veneratio. 

Natus Hibernia, Forneiaa Lonfordiensis, 

In Loco cui Nomen Pallas, 

Nov. xxix. MDCCXXXI. 

Eblanse Literis institutus. 

Obiit Londini 

Apr. iv. mdcclxxiv. 



Translation, 

This Monument is raised 

To the Memory of 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

Poet, Natural Philosopher, and Historian, 



LIFE OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XXlll 

Who left no species of writing untouched, 

or 

Unadorned by his pen, 

Whether to move laughter, 

Or draw tears: 

He was a powerful master 

Over the affections, 

Though at the same time a gentle tyrant ; 

Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 

Equal to every subject: 

In expression at once noble, 

Pure, and delicate. 

His memory will last 

As long as Society retains affection, 

Friendship is not void of honour, 

And Reading wants not her admirers. 

He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, 

At Femes, in the province 

Of Leinster, 

Where Pallas had set her name, 

29th Nov. 1731. 

He was educated at Dublin, 

And died in London, 

4th April, 1774. 

We shall conclude this account of the life of Dr. 
Goldsmith with the two following poems, written on 
the occasion of his death. 



[ xxir ] 
ON THE DEATH 



OF 



DR. GOLDSMITH. 



BY W. WOTY. 



ADIEU, sweet Bard! to each fine feeling true, 
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few ; 
Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds,. ..and these 
With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
Another's woe thy heart could always melt; 
None gave more free.... for none more deeply felt. 
Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
Have sculptur'd out thy monument of praise : 
Yes.. ..these survive to time's remotest day; 
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train, 
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
Depart in peace, and imitate the man. 



[ XXV ] 

A MONODY 

ON THE 

DEATH OF DR. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



JJARK as the night, which now in dunnest robe 

Ascends her zenith, o'er the silent globe, 

Sad Melancholy wakes, awhile to tread 

With solemn step the mansions of the dead : 

Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine 

I sorrowing bend ; and here essay to twine 

The tributary wreath of laureat bloom, 

With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb ; 

The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, 

adieu ! 
No more your airy dreams shall mock my view : 
Here will I learn ambition to control, 
And each aspiring passion of the soul : 
Ev'n now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 
When late he meditated flight from care, 
When as imagination fondly hied 
To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried: 



XXVi 3I0N0DT ON THE DEATH 

" Ye splendid fabrics, palaces and towers, 
N Where Dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
" Where Pomp, Disease, and Knavery reside, 
H And Folly bends the knee to wealthy Pride ; 
" Where Luxury's purveyors learn to rise, 
" And Worth, to Want a prey, unfriended dies ; 
" Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
" And hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 

* Farewel ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 

" Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies, 

" Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades, 

u Forlorn, yet ever dear and honour'd shades. 

M There though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 

u Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain; 

" No needy villains prowl around for prey, 

M No slanderers, no sycophants betray j 

u No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 

M The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride. 

* There will I fly to seek that soft repose, 
" WTiich solitude contemplative bestows: 

" Yet oh fond hope ! perchance there still remains 
#< One lingering friend behind, to bless the plains j 
u Some hermit of the dale, enshrin'd in ease, 
** Long-lost companion of my youthful days; 



Or DR. GOLDSMITH. XXVli 

" With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 

" I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 

" To whose pure sympathy I may impart 

" Each latent grief that labours at my heart, 

" Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate, 

u The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state ; 

" Those busy scenes, where Science wakes in vain, 

" In which I shar'd, ah, ne'er to share again ! 

" But whence that pang? does nature now rebel? 

" Why faulters out my tongue the wordjarewel? 

" Ye friends! who long have witness'd to my toil, 

" And seen me ploughing in a thankless soil ; 

" Wliose partial tenderness hush'd every pain, 

" W T hose approbation made my bosom vain: 

" 'Tis you, to whom my soul divided hies 

" With fond regret, and half unwilling flies ; 

" Sighs forth her parting wishes to the wind, 

" And lingering leaves her better half behind. 

u Can I forget the intercourse I sharM, 

""What friendship cherish'd, and what zeal enclcar'd?. 

" Alas! remembrance still must turn to you, 

" And to my latest hour protract the long adieu. 

" Amid the woodlands, wheresoe'er I rove, 

" The plain, or secret covert of the grove, 



XXV1U MONODY ON THE DEATH 

" Imagination shall supply her store 

" Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 

u Shall strew each lonely path with flowrets gay, 

" And wide as is her boundless empire stray. 

" On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies, 

" And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 

" Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 

" Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand; 

" Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 

11 And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 

" There spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome ; 

" The champion, there, of liberty, and Rome, 

li In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws, 

" And uncorrupted senates shout applause. 

tl Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 

84 Of Numa, when to midnight grots he stole, 

" And learnt his lore, from virtue's mouth refin'd, 

" To fetter vice, and harmonize mankind. 

" Now stretch'd at ease, beside some fav'rite stream, 

" Of beauty and enchantment will I dream; 

" Elysium, feats of art, and laurels won, 

" The Graces three, and Japhet's* fabled son : 

* Promethens. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XXlX 

c< Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, 

" And see a new creation wait his nod, 

" Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power > 

" And to my arms my absent friends restore, 

" Place me amidst the group, each well-known face, 

" The sons of science, lords of human race ; 

" And as oblivion sinks at his command, 

" Nature shall rise more finish 'd from his hand. 

" Thus some magician fraught with potent skill, 

" Transforms, and moulds each vary'd mass at will; 

" Calls animated forms of wondrous birth, 

" Cadmean offspring from the teeming earth, 

u Uncears the ponderous tombs, the realms of night, 

" And calls their cold inhabitants to light ; 

" Or, as he traverses a dreary scene, 

" Bids every sweet of nature there convene. 

u Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, 

" The shrub-deckt lawns, and silver-sprinkled floods, 

" Whilst flowrets spring around the smiling land, 

" And follow on the traces of his wand. 

" Such prospects, lovely Auburn ! then, be thine$ 
.," And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine; 
" Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease, 
" Grant me to pass the remnant of my days: 



XKX" KONODY ON THE DEATH 

" Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, 

" My raptur'd muse shall pour her noblest strain, 

" Within her native bowers the notes prolong, 

" And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 

" Thus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 

" And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end, 

" Each worldly wish, each worldly care represt, "] 

" A self- approving heart alone possest, ^> 

" Content, to bounteous heaven I'll leave the rest. "J 

Thus spoke the Bard : but not one friendly power 
With nod assentive crown'd the parting hour ; 
No eastern meteor glar'd beneath the sky, 
No dextral omen ; Nature hqav'd a sigh, 
Prophetic of the dire impending blow, 
The presage of her loss, and Britain's woe. 
Already portion'd, unrelenting Fate 
Had made a pause upon the number'd date; 
Behind, stood Death, too horrible for sight, 
In darkness clad, expectant prun'd for flight ; 
Pleas'd at the word, the shapeless monster sped, 
On eager message to the humble shed. 
Where wrapt by soft poetic visions round, 
Sweet slumbering, Fancy's darling son he found. 
At his approach the silken-pinion 'd train, 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XXXI 

Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, 

Which late they fann'd : now other scenes than dales 

Of woody pride, succeed, or flow'ry vales: 

As when a sudden tempest veils the sky, 

Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly ; 

The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll, 

Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 

Terrific horrors all the void invest, 

Whilst the arch-spectre issues forth confest. 

The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 

Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb; 

In vain attempts to fly, the impassive air 

Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 

He feels a gripe that thrills through every veii\, 

And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 

Here paus'd the fell destroyer to survey 

The pride, the boast of man, his destin'd prey ; 

Prepar'd to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, 

And plung'd the steel in Virtue's bleeding heart; 

Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, 

And leave on Nature's face a grisly wound, 

A wound enroll'd among Britannia's woes, 

That ages yet to follow, cannot close. 



XXxii MONODY ON THE DEATH, ScC. 

Oh, Goldsmith ! how shall sorrow now essay 
To murmur out her slow incondite lay ? 
In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, 
That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish 'd strain ? 
Much-honour 'd Bard ! if my untutor'd verse 
Could pay a tribute, worthy of thy hearse, 
With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, 
And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
But, ah ! with thee my guardian Genius fled, 
And pillow 'd in thy tomb his silent head: 
Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
And pensive stalks the solitary plains. 
Rich in her sorrows, honours without art, 
She pays in tears, redundant from the heart. 
And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust 
To heap the graven pile, or laurel'd bust ; 
Since by thy hands already rais'd on high, 
We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky: 
W T here hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
Shall travel on, till Nature is no more . ? 



THE POEMS 



OF 



DR. GOLDSMITH, 



THE TRAVELLER; 



QR, 



A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



FIRST PRINTED IN 1765, 



DEDICATION. 



TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 



DEAR SIR, 

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can 
acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedi- 
cation; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to 
prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline 
giving with your own. But as a part of this poem 
was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to 
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of 
it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed 
to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has re- 
tired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income 
of forty pounds a year* 



6 DEDICATION. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of 
your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred 
office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers 
are but few ; while you have left the field of Ambition, 
where the labourers are many, and the harvest not 
worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, 
what from the refinement of the times, from different 
systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, 
that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among un- 
polished nations ; but in a country verging to the ex- 
tremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for 
a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less labo- 
rious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at 
length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once 
shown to her, and, though but younger sisters, seize 
upon the elder's birthright. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the 
powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mis- 
taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criti- 



DEDICATION. 7 

cisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank 
verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests and 
iambics, alliterative care, and happy negligence! 
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; 
and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has 
always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
gerous....! mean Party. Party entirely distorts the 
judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind 
is once infected with this disease, it can only find 
pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. 
Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, 
after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, 
who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, 
makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon 
murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire 
some half-witted thing, who wants to ; be thought a 
bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. 
Him they dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry 



8 DEDICATION. 

lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence is said to 
be force, and his phrenzy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has 
neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I 
cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to known. My aims 
are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, 
I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have 
endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happi- 
ness in states, that are differently governed from our 
own ; that every state has a particular principle of hap- 
piness, and that this principle in each may be carried 
to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge, 
better than yourself, how far these positions are illus- 
trated in this Poem. 

I am, Dear Sir, 

Your most affectionate Brother, 
Oliver Goldsmith, 



THE TRAVELLER; 



OR. 



A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* 



REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart, untravelPd, fondly turns to thee: 
Still to my brother turns, with ceasless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

* Several alterations were made in this Poem, and some 
new verses added to it, as it passed through different edi- 
tions We have followed the last edition published in the 

lifetime of the author. 



10 THE TRAVELLER. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening lire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me... .not destin'd such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies.... 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 



THE TRAVELLER. 11 

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear ; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain r 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 



12 THE TRAVELLER. 

As some lone miser visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 



THE TRAVELLER. IS 

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, I 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam ; 
His first, best country, ever, is.. ..at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings -which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind : 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call; 
With food as well the peasant is supply 'd 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky crested summits frown, 
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent ; 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 



14 THE TRAVELLER. 

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails ; 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
Till carry'd to excess in each domain, 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here for a while my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Appennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With memorable grandeur mark the scene. 



THE TRAVELLER. 15 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the vary 'd year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows.... 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear.... 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And ev'n in penance planning sins anew. 



16 THE TRAVELLER. 

All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'*! through the state; 
At her command the palace learnt to rise, 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature warm; 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores dispiay'd her sail; 
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave ; 
And late tb.e nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supply'd 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : 



THE TRAVELLER. IF 

Processions form'd for piety and love ; 

A mistress, or a saint, in every grove. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd.... 

The sports of children satisfy the child : 

Each nobler aim, represt by long controul, 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 

While low delights succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind : 

As in those domes, where Cxsars once bore sway, 

Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 

And, wcnd'ring man could want the larger pile, 

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey . 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 

G 



IS THE TRAVELLER. 

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm 5 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Tho* poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loath his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 



THE TRAVELLER. 19 

And night returning, every labour sped, 

He sits him down the monarch of a shed : 

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 

His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 

While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 

Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 

And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 

Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 

And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise, 

Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : 

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 

And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 

it l / # 

And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 

/ / / i 

Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 

But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign 'd ; 

Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd: 



£0 THE TRAVELLER. 

Yet let them only share the praises due.... 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
For every want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, bury'd in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run ; 



THE TRAVELLER. 21 

And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 

Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 

Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 

May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; 

But all the gentler morals, such as play 

Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the war, 

These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fiy, 

To sport and nutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.... 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world- can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshen 'd from the wave the zephyr new : 
And haply, though my harsh touch fault'ring still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power., 
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 



22 THE TRAVELLER. 

Alike all ages* Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
And the gay grandsi e, skili'd in gestic lore, | 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honour forms the social temper here. 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem^ 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

Bat while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought,; 



THE TRAVELLER. 23 

And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 

Leans for all pleasure on ancther's breast. 

Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, 

Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 

Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, 

And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; 

Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, 

To boast one splendid banquet once a year; 

The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws^ 

Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to step the coming tide, 
Lift the tall ramp ire's artificial pride. 
Onward methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 



24 THE TRAVELLER. 

While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom 'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescu'd from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
Are here display'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear.... 
E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Her',; wretches seek dishonourable graves, 



THE TRAVELLER. 25 

And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old; 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow.... 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd.... 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 
W T ith daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, 

H 



26 THE TRAVELLER. 

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 

True to imagin'd right, above contrcul, 

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 

And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here ; 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear. 
Too blest indeed, were such without alloy ; 
But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or phrensy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 



3THE TRAVELLER. 2T 

Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 

Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe* 

Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 

And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 

Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms. 

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms r 

Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 

Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame. 

One sink of level avarice shall lie, 

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great:.... 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, 
Still may thy blooms the changeful Clime endure..-. 
I only would repress them, to secure ; 



28 THE TRAVELLER. 

For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That those who think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion 'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast-approaching danger warms : 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 



THE TRAVELLER. 29 

Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first Ambition struck at regal power ; 
And thus polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ? 
Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern Depopulation in her train, 
And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose ? 
In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 



30 THE TRAVELLER. 

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? 

Ev'n now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways ; 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I stray 'd from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 



THE TRAVELLER. 31 

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 

Our own felicity we make or find : 

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 

The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 

Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 

To men remote from power but rarely known, 

Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 



A POEM. 



FIRST PRINTED IN 1769. 



DEDICATION. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 



DEAR SIR, 

1 CAN have no expectations, in an address of 
this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to esta- 
blish my own. You can gain nothing from my admi- 
ration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are 
said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity 
of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry 
than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which 
I never paid much attention, I must be indulged, at 
present, in following my affections. The only dedi- 
cation I ever made was to my brother, because I 
loved him better than most other men. He is since 
dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 



36 DEDICATION. 

How far you may be pleased with the versifica- 
tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do 
not pretend to inquire: but I know you will object 
(and indeed several of our best and wisest friends 
concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it de- 
plores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it 
laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagi- 
nation. To this I can scarce make any other answer, 
than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that 
I have taken all possible pains, in my country excur- 
sions, for these four or five years past, to be certain 
of what I allege ; and that all my views and inquiries 
have led me to believe those miseries real, which I 
here attempt to display. But this is not the place to 
enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopu- 
lating, or not; the discussion would take up much 
room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indiffer- 
ent politician, to tire the reader with a long pre- 
face, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long 
poem. 



DEDICATION. 37 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I 
inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here 
also I expect the shout of modern politicians against 
me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the 
fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest na- 
tional advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity, 
in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I 
must remain a professed ancient on that head, and 
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states 
by which so many vices are introduced, and so many 
kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has 
been poured out of late on the other side of the ques- 
tion, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, 
one would sometimes wish to be in the right. 
I am, Dear Sir, 

Your sincere Friend, 

And ardent Admirer, 
Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 



SWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain. 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please-; 

How often have I loiter 'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene I 

How often have I paus'd on every charm, 

The shelter 'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made I 



40 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
When toil remitting, lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tre ; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms.. .But all these charms are fled. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ii 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall, 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 

K 



42 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; 
For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life requir'd, bat gave no more : 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd: Trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter 'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose j 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, 
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 43 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs.. ..and God has giv'n my share.... 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes.. ..for pride attends us still.... 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 



44 ' THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return.... and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 45 

There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young j 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay 'd the whisp'ring wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot- way tread, 
But all the blooming flush of life is fled:.... 
All but yon widow 'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 



46 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train.... 

He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. 

The long-remember 'd beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 

The ruin'd spendthrift now no longer proud, 

Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 4? 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits, or their faults, to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch 'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies ; 
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay 'd, 
The rev 'rend champion stood. At his controul, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 



48, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise. 
At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn 'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain 'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
Their welfare pleas 'd him, and their cares distress 'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom 'd furze unprofitably gay, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 49 

There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 

The village master taught his little school : 

A man severe he was, and stern to view, 

I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 

Well had the boding tremblers learn 'd to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he - r 

Full well the busy whisper circling round, 

. Convey 'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault: 

The village all declar'd how much he knew; 

Twas certain he could write and cypher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could guage : 

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 

For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, 

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, 

L 



50 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head should carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, 
WTiere village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The Twelve good Rules, the royal Game of Goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilFd the day, 
with aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 51 

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art : 



52 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 

Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfin'd. 

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, 

In these, ere trifiers half their wish obtain, 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : 

And e'en while Fashion's brightest arts decoy, 

The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis your's to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 53 

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product fiies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all 
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 



54 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd; 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms.. ..a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. 

If to the city sped.. ..what waits him there ? 
To sec profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd, 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 55 

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ?....Ah, turn thine eyes' 

Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door, she lays her head, 

And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the showV 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 



36 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 57 

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado fiies, 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

GoodHeaven! what sorrows gloom 'd that parting day, 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
And took a long farewel, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave, 

M 



58 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp 'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O, Luxury ! thou curs'd by heaven's decree, 
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions with insidious joy 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 59 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes plac'd above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strive for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 



CO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewel, and oh ! where'er thy voice be try'd, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side ; 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow ; 
Still let thy voice prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependant power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

A POETICAL EPISTLE. 

TO LORD CLARE. 

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 



1 HANKS, my Lord, for your ven'son, for finer or 

fatter 
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter ; 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 

regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: 
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in. 



64 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

But hold.. ..let me pause....don'tIhear you pronounce, 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? 
Well, suppose it a bounce.... sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my Lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, 
It's a truth.. ..and your Lordship may ask Mr. Burn*. 
To go on with my tale. ...as I gaz'd on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 
J Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's ; 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 

when. 
There's H....d, and C....V, and H....rth, and H....ff, 
I think they love ven'son....I know they love beef. 
There's my countryman Higgins....Oh ! let him alone, 
For making a blunder or picking a bone. 

* Lord Clare's nephew. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 65 

But hang it.. ..to poets who seldom can eat, 

Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 

Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, 

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie center 'd, 

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter 'd; 

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 

And he smiFd as he look'd at the ven'son and me. 

" What have we got here ?....Why, this is good eating ! 

Your own I suppose.. ..or is it in waiting?" 

" Why, whose should it be?" cry'd I with a flounce ^ 

" I get these things often: "....but that was a bounce: 

" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 

Are pleas 'd to be kind.... but I hate ostentation." 

" If that be the case then," cry'd he very gay, 
" I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words.. ..I insist on 't.... precisely at three: 
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there; 
My acquaintance is slight* or I'd ask my lord Clare. 

N 



66 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

And now, that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner. 
What say you?.... a pasty, it shall, and it must; 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter.... this ven'son with me to Mile-End; 
No stirring... I beg... my dear friend... my dear friend I" 
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow 'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having empty'd my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself;"* 
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty, 
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we all were to dine 
(A chair-lumber 'd clpsset, just twelve feet by nine), 

* See the letters that passed between his royal highness 
Henry duke of Cumberland and lady Grosvenor, 12mo,1769. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 67 

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
" For I knew it," he cry'd ; " both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some think he writes China.. ..he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, 
They enter 'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. 

At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen, 
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty.. ..was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 



68 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

But what vext me most, was that d 'd Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his 

brogue ; 
And, " Madam," quoth he, " may thisbit be my prison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 
" Oh ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
There's a pasty"...." A pasty!" repeated the Jew; 
" I do'n't care, if I keep a corner for't too." 
" What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot; 
" Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
• W r e'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out; 
" We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 69 

While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay 'd, 
With looks that quite petrify 'd, enter'd the maid;, 
A vissage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out, (for who could mistake her ? ) 
That she came with some terrible news from the baker: 
And so it fell out, that the negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus.. ..but let similies drop.... 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
You've got an odd something... .a kind of discerning.... 
A relish.. ..a taste. .. .sicken 'd over by learning; 
At least, it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



v 



RETALIATION: 

A POEM. 

FIRST PRINTED IN 1774, 

After the Death of the Author 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Dr. Goldsmith, and some of his friends, occa- 
sionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house One 

day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His 
country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of 
witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, 
and, at their next meeting, produced the following 
Poem. 



RETALIATION. 



Of old, when Scarrcn his companions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. 
If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 

dish: 
Our deanf shall be ven'son just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burke:): shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains; 
Our Will || shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; 
And Dick** with his pepper shall heighten the savour: 

* The master of the St. James's coffee-bouse, where 
the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this 
Poem occasionally dined. 

f Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry in Ireland. 

f Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

|] Mr. William Burke, late secretary to general Con- 
way and member for Bedwin. 

** Mr. llichard Burke, collector of Grenada. 



74 RETALIATION. 

Our Cumberland'6* sweetbread its place shall obtain ; 
And Douglasf is pudding, substantial and plain : 
Our Garrick's| a salad ; for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
That Ridge|| is anchovy, and Reynolds** is lamb; 
That Hickey'sff a capon, and by the same rule, 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a goosberry fool. 

* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, 
Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic 
pieces. 

f Dr. John Douglas, now bishop of Salisbury, a native 
cf Scotland, who has no less distinguished himself as a 
citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting seve- 
ral literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his country- 
men; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History 
of the Popes. 

\ David Garrick, Esq. 

jj Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the 
Irish bar. 

** Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

tf An eminent attorney 



RETALIATION. 75 

At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, 
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt.... 
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em put ; 
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be deny'd 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 

Here lies our good Edmund,f whose genius was 
such, 
W T e scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow 'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 

* Vide page 73. f Ibid. 



76 RETALIATION. 

Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat, 
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining ; 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, f whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; 
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ; 

* Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, 
t Vide page 73. 



RETALIATION. 77 

Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at j 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!* 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old nick ; 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland! lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; 

* Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 73. This gentleman 
having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at dif- 
ferent times, the Doctor has rallied him on those acci- 
dents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his 
jests upon other people. 

f Vide page 74. 



78 RETALIATION. 

A flattering painter, who made it his care 

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 

And Comedy wonders at being so fine : 

Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 

Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 

Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud; 

And coxcombs alike in their failings alone, 

Adopting his portraits, are pleas 'd with their own 

Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 

Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 

Say, was it, that vainly directing his view, 

To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 

Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Douglas* retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: 

* Vide page 74, 



\ 

RETALIATION. 7'9 

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : 

When satire and censure encircled his throne, 

I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; 

But now 'he is gone, and we want a detector, 

Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenricksf shall lecture; 

Macpherson^: write bombast, and call it a style, 

Our Townshend|| make speeches, and I shall compile ; 

New Lauders and Bowers** the Tweed shall cross 

over, 
No countrymen living their tricks to discover ; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotsman meet Scotsman, and cheat in the dark. 

* The Rev. Dr. Docld. 

f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, 
under the title of " The School of Shakespeare." 

\ James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere 
force of his style, wrdte down the first poet of all anti- 
quity. 

Jj Vide page 76. 

** Vide page 74. 



80 RETALIATION. 

Here lies David Garrick,* describe him who can, 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he vary'd full ten times a day: 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when hepleas'dhe could whistle them back 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow 'd what came, 
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 

* Vide page 74 



RETALIATION. 81 

Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 

Who pepper 'd the highest was surest to please. 

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 

Ye Kenricks,* ye Kellys,f and Woodfalls| so grave, 

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave? 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, 
While he was be-Roscius'd and you were beprais'd? 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: 
ThQse poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare, receive him, with praise and with 

love, 
.And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

* Vide page 79. 

| Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to 
the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. 

I Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 



82 RETALIATION. 

Here Hickey* reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea- 
ture, 

And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 

He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ! 

I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser : 

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 

His very worst foe can't accuse him of that: 

Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 

And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! 

Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn 
ye:.... 

He was.. ..could he help it?. ...a special attorney. 
Here Reynoldsf is laid, and, to tell you ray mind, 

He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 

His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 

His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 

* Vide page 74.. f Ibid. 



RETALIATION. 83 

Still born to improve us in every part, 

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 

When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of 

shearing : 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 

stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff, 



POSTSCRIPT. 

AFTER the fourth edition of this Poem was 
printed, the publisher received the following epitaph 
on Mr. Whitefoord,t from a friend of the late Doctor 
Goldsmith. 

* Sir Joshua Keynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be 
under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company, 
t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous 

essays. 



POSTSCRIPT TO RETALIATION. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 
Though he merrily liv'd he is now a grave* man : 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun: 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; 
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotsman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content " if the table he set in a roar;" 
Whose talents to fill any station was fit, 
Yet happy if Woodfallf confess'd him a wit. 

• Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Gold- 
smith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, 
without being infected with the itch of punning. 

f Mr. II. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 



POSTSCRIPT TO RETALIATION. 8$ 

Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copy'd his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
Cross-readings , shifi-news, and mistakes of the press J 
Merry Whitefoord, farewel ! for thy sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: 
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, 
" Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd 
muse." 

* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town 
with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Ad- 
vertiser. 



THE HERMIT: 

A BALLAD. 

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765. 



LETTER TO THE PRINTER 

OF THE 

ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE. 

INSERTED IN THAT PAPER, IN JUNE 1767". 



Sir, 

As there is nothing I dislike so much as news- 
paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit 
me to be as concise as possible in informing a corres- 
pondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's 
Travels, because I thought the book was a good one ; 
and I think so still. I said, I was told by the book- 
seller that it was then first published ; but in that, it 
seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not 
extensive enough to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of 
having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, 
from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not 

* The Fviar of Orders Gray. " Reliq. of Anc. Foetry," 
vol. i. p. 243. 



90 LETTER, &C. 

think there is any great resemblance between the two 
pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken 
from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; 
and he (as we both considered these things as trifles 
at best) told me, with his usual good humour, the next 
time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form 
the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. 
He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, 
and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as 
these are scarce worth printing : and, were it not for 
the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, 
the Public should never have known that he owes me 
the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his 
friendship and learning for communications of a much 
more important nature. 

I am Sir, 

Yours, See. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE HERMIT. 



« TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
" And guide my lonely way 

" To where yon taper cheers the vale 
" With hospitable ray. 

* £ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
" With fainting steps and slow ; 

" Where wilds immeasurably spread, 
" Seem length'ning as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

* For yonder faithless phantom flies, 
" To lure thee to thy doom. 



92 THE HERMIT. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

" My door is open still ; 
" And though my portion is but scant, 

" I give it with good will* 

" Then turn to-night, and freely share 
" Whate'er my cell bestows; 

" My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
" My blessing, and repose. 

" No flocks that range the valley free, 
" To slaughter I condemn ; 

" Taught by that Power that pities me, 
" I learn to pity, them: 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

f* A guiltless feast I bring ; 
M A scrip, with herbs and fruits supply'd, 

•* And water from the spring. 



THE HERMIT. 93 

" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 

" All earth-born cares are wrong: 
* Man wants but little here below, 

" Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay ; 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Requir'da master's care; 
The wicket op'ning with a latch, 

Receiv'd the harmless pair. 



94 THE HERMIT. 

And now, when busy crowds retire, 
To take their evening rest, 

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
And cheer'd his pensive guest: 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily prest, and smiPd ; 

And, skilTd in legendary lore, 
The ling'ring hours beguil'd 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
Its tricks the kitten tries ; 

The cricket chirrups in the heart ; 
The crackling faggot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger's woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 
And tears began to flow. 



THE HERMIT. 95 

His rising cares the Hermit spy'd, 

With answering care opprest : 
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cry VI, 

" The sorrows of thy breast ? 

u From better habitations spurn'd, 

" Reluctant dost thou rove ; 
" Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

" Or unregarded love ? 

u Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 

" Are trifling, and decay ; 
" And those who prize the paltry things, 

" More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

" A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
" A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

" But leaves the wretch to weep ? 



96 THE HERMIT. 

" And love is still an emptier sound, 
" The modern fair-one's jest; 

" On earth unseen, or only found 
" To warm the turtle's nest. 

" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
" And spurn the sex," he said: 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 



THE HERMIT. 97 

And, M Ah, forgive a stranger rude, 

" A wretch forlorn," she cry'd; 
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 

" Where heav'n and you reside, 

a But let a maid thy pity share, 
u Whom love has taught to stray ; 

" Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
" Companion of her way. 

" My father liv'd beside the Tyne, 

" A wealthy lord was he ; 
" And all his wealth was mark'd as mine; 

" He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 

" Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
u Who prais'd me for imputed charms, 

H And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 

R 



§3 THE HERMIT. 

" Each hour a mercenary crowd 
" With richest proffers strove : 

" Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
" But never talk'd of love. 

" In humble, simplest habit clad, 
u Nor wealth nor power had he ; 

" Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
" But these were all to me. 

" The blossom opening to the day, 
" The dews of heav'n refin'd, 

" Could nought of purity display, 
" To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
< " With charms inconstant shine : 
" Their charms were his, but, woe to me I 
" Their constancy was mine. 



THE HERMIT. 

" For still I try'd each fickle art, 

u Importunate and vain ; 
" And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

" I triumph'd in his pain : 

" Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

" He left me to my pride ; 
" And sought a solitude forlorn, 

" In secret, where he dy*d. 

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
" And well my life shall pay ; 

" I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
" And stretch me where he lay. 

" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

" I'll lay me down and die ; 
" 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

" And so for him will J." 



100 THE HERMIT. 

" Forbid it, heav'n!" the Hermit cry'd, 
And clasp 'd her to his breast: 

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide.... 
'Twas Edwin's self that prest! 

u Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

" My charmer, turn to see 
" Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

" Restor'd to love and thee. 

•« Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

" And every care resign." 
w And shall we never, never part, 

" My life....my all that's mine?" 

«* No, never, from this hour to part, 
" We'll live and love so true : 

* The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
" Shall break thy Edwin's too." 



TALES, ELEGIES, SONGS, 
PROLOG ULL, &c. 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION: 



A TALE. 



SECLUDED from domestic strife, 
Jack Book-worm led a college life; 
A fellowship at twenty-five 
Made him the happiest man alive ; 
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
Could any accident impair ? 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain arriv'd at thirty-six? 
O had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 



104 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Or Flavia been content to stop 
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop I 
O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 

O ! But let exclamation cease : 

Her presence banish'd all his peace. 
So with decorum all things carry'd; 
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was...marry'd. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night ? 
Need we intrude on hallow 'd ground, 
Or draw the curtains clos'd around? 
Let it suffice, that each had charms; 
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; 
And, though she felt his vissage rough, 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
The second brought its transports too : 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss ; 
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss : 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 1C6 

But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 

Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 

Found half the charms that deck'd her face 

Arose from powder, shreds, or lace : 

But still the worst remain 'd behind.... 

That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she, 

But dressing, patching, repartee ; 

And, just as humour rose or. fell, 

By turns a slattern or a belle : 

'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, 

Half naked at a ball or race ; 

But when at home, at board or bed, 

Five greasy night-caps wrap'd her head. 

Could so much beauty condescend 

To be a (lull domestic friend ? 

Could any curtain lectures bring 

To decency so fine a thing? 

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; 

By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting, 
s 



106 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 

Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; 

The 'squire and captain took their stations. 

And twenty other near relations ; 

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 

A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 

While all their hours were past between 

Insulting repartee, or spleen. 

Thus as her faults each day were known, 
He thinks her features coarser grown : 
He fancies every vice she shows, 
Or thins her lip, or points her nose ; 
Whenever rage or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is grown a knowing phiz : 
And, though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the revelPd noose, 
As each a different way pursues, 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 107 

While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promis'd to hold them on for life, 
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
Withers the beauty's transient flower, 
Lo ! the small-pox, with horrid glare, 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes. 
In vain she tries her paste and creams, 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
Her country beaux and city cousins, 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : 
The squire himself was seen to yield, 
And e'en the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 



108 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Perceiving others fairly flown, 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old ; 
With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean : 
No more presuming on her sway, 
She learns good-nature every day. 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



THE GIFT 



TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. 



oAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 

Dear mercenary beauty, 
What annual off'ring shall I make 

Expressive of my duty. 

My heart a victim to thine eyes, 
Should I at once deliver, 

Say, would the angry fair-one prize 
The gift, who slights the giver ? 

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 
My rivals give*. ••and let 'em. 

If gems, cr gold, impart a joy, 
Pli £ive them.... when I get 'em. 



110 THE GIFT. 

I'll give.... but not the full-blown rose. 

Or rose-bud more in fashion ; 
Such short-liv'd off' rings but disclose 

A transitory passion. 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
Not less sincere than civil : 

I'll give thee.. ..ah! too charming maid, 
I'll give thee... .to the devil. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, 



IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 



Logicians have but m defin'd 

As rational the human mind ; 

Reason, they say, belongs to man, 

But let them prove it if they can. 

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 

By ratiocinations specious, 

Have strove to prove with great precision, 

With definition and division, 

Homo est ratione fireditum; 

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 

And must, in spite of them, maintain, 

That man and all his ways are vain ; 



112 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

And that this boasted lord of nature 
Is both a weak and erring creature ; 
Thut instinct is a surer guide 
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 
" And that brute beasts are far before 'em.... 
Deus est anima brutorum. 
Who ever knew an honest brute, 
At law his neighbour prosecute, 
Bring action for assau't and battery, 
Or friend beguile with lies andflattery ? 
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd; 
No politics disturb their mind ; 
They eat their meals, and take their sport,' 
Nor know who's in or out at court; 
They never to the levee go, 
To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; 
They never importune his grace, 
Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
Nor undertake a dirty job, 
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob \ 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 113 

Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
To folks at Pater-noster row. 
No judges, fiddlers, dancmg-masters, 
No pick-pockets, or poetasters, 
Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 
No single brute his fellow leads. 
Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
Of beast, it is confess'd, the ape 
Comes nearest us in human shape j 
Like man, he imitates each fashion, 
And malice is his ruling passion : 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
Upon the minister of state : 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
And to perform takes equal care. 

T 



114 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

He in his turn finds imitators ; 
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters, 
Their masters' manners still contract, 
And footmen, lords and dukes can act, 
Thus at the court, both great and small, 
Behave alike, for all ape all. 



115 



ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH 



STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 



IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. 



SURE 'twas by Providence design'd, 
Rather in pity, than in hate, 

That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
To save him from Narcissus' fate. 



116 

A NEW SIMILE, 
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT, 



-LONG had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind ; 
The modern scribbling kind, who write, 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: 
Till reading, I forget what day on, 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there, 
To suit my purpose to a hair ; 
But let us not proceed too furious, 
First please to turn to God Mercurius ; 
You'll find him pictur'd at full length 
In book the second, page the tenth : 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
And now proceed we to our simile. 



A NEW SIMILE. UT 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side.... mark that. 
Well! what is it from thence we gather? 
Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right, 
With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
Such as to modern bard's decreed. 
A just comparison.. proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes; 
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air ; 
And here my simile unites, 
For in a modern poet's flights, 
I'm sure it may be justly said, 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand ; 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly fam'd for several uses. 



118 A NEW SIMILE. 

To wit.... most wondrously endu'd, 
No poppy water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its«oporific virtue's such, 
Though ne'er so much awake before, 
That quickly they begin to snore. 
Add too, what certain writers tell, 
With this he drives men's souls to hell. 

Now to apply, begin we then ; 
His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
The serpents round about it twin'd, 
Denote him of the reptile kind ; 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom 'd bites. 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike too both conduce to sleep : 
This difference only, as the God 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf. 
Instead of others, damns himself. 



A NEW SIMILE. 119 

And here my simile almost tript, 
Yet grant a word by way of postcript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing : 
Well! what of that? Out with it....Stealing; 
Jn which all modern bards agree, 
Being each as great a thief as he : 
But e'en this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance. 
Our modern bards ! why what a pox 
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 



120 



AN ELEGY 



ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



GOOD people all, of every sort, 
Give ear unto my song ; 

And if you find it wondrous short, 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 
To comfort friends and foes ; 

The naked every day he clad, 
When he put on his clothes. 



ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 121 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 



Around from all the neighb'ring streets 
The wond'ring neighbours ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, 

To every christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

u 



122 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied; 

The man recover 'd of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 



m 



THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 



JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, 

To tell them the reason why asses had ears ? 

" An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to 

letters, 
" Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
" Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, 
" As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses.'* 

Edinburgh, 1753. 



124 



STANZAS ON WOMAN, 



W HEN lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can sooth her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye^ 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom. ...is, to die. 



125 



DESCRIPTION 



AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 



WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champaign, 
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; 
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug : 
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay, 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread, 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : 
The royal Game of Goose was there in view, 
And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew ; 



126 AN author's bed-chamber. 

The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, 
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face: 
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, 
And five crack'd tea-caps dress'd the chimney-board; 
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, - 
A cap by night.. ..a stocking all the day ! 



• 127 

LETTER 
FROM MR. JAMES EOSWELL, 

CONTAINING A SONG WRITTEN BY OUR AUTHOR, 
WHICH HAS NEVER BEFORE BEEN PUBLISHED, 



I SEND you a small production of the late Dr. 
Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which 
might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secur- 
ed it. He intended it as a song in the character of 
Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of " She 
Stoops to Conquer ;" but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulk- 
ley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it 
himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The 
tune is a pretty Irish air, called " The Humours of 
Balamagairy," to which he told me he found it very 
difficult to adapt words : but he has succeeded very 
happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, 
and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me 



128 LETTER. 

them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, 
and bidding him adieu for that season, little appre- 
hending th^it it was a last farewel. I preserve this 
little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affec- 
tionate care. 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

James Boswell. 
To Mb. 



129 



SONG, 



INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE 



COMEDY OF 



« SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 
Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me. 
He, fond youth, that -could carry me, 
Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. 
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



130 

STANZAS 

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 



AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 

And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. 

O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; 

Quebeck in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eye;,: 

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ; 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes ise. 



131 

EPITAPH 

ON DR. PARNELL. 



THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle ParnelTs name, 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's ftow'ry way ! 

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; 

And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 

While converts thank their poet in the skies. 



132 

EPITAPH 

ON EDWARD PURDON.* 



HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 

Who long was a bookseller's hack; 
He led such a damnable life in this world, 

I don't think he'll wish to come back. 

* Mr, Purdon was educated at Trinity-College, Dublin; 
but having wasted his patrimony, he inlisted as a foot-sol- 
dier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his 
discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He 
translated Voltaire's Henriade. 



133 
AN ELEGY 

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX r 
MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 



CjOOD people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word.... 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor.... 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighbourhood to please, 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways.... 
Unless when she was sinning. 



134 AN ELEGY. 

At church, in silks and sattins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumber'd in her pew.... 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 
By twenty beaux and more ; 

The king himself has follow 'd her.... 
When she has walk'd before. 

But now her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all ; 

The doctors found, when she was dead... 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
For Kent-street well may say, 

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more.. 
She had not died to-day. 



135 



A SONNET. 



VVEEPING, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight ; 
Myra, too sincere for feigning, 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection ? 

Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
Had Myra follow'd my direction, 

She long had wanted cause of fear. 



136 



SONG, 



FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY, 



THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart, 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 



13f 



SONG. 



O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain ; 

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ! 

And he who wants each other blessing, 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



138 

A FROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN AND 

SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS 

A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR FORCED UPON 
THE STAGE. 

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.* 



VvHAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ? 
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, 
What, in the name of dotage, drives me here ? 
A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
Unaw'd by power, and unappal'd by fear, 
With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 

* This translation was first printed in one of our Au- 
thor's earliest works, " The Present State of Learning in 
Europe," 12mo, 1759. 



PROLOGUE. 139 

But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 
For ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Csesar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. 
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame, 
And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well ; 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honour ends. 



140 



PROLOGUE 



TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY. 



IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 

The distant climate and the savage shore ; 

When wise astronomers to India steer, 

And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 

While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, . 

Forsake the fair, and patiently.... go simpling; 

Our bard into the general spirit enters, 

And fits his little frigate for adventures. 

With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, 

He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading.... 

Yet ere he lands, he has order'd me before, 

To make an observation on the shore. 



PROLOGUE. 141 

Where are we driv'n? our reckoning sure is lost! 

This seems a reeky and a dangerous coast. 

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! 

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[ Upper gallery. 

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 
'em.... [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size.. ..and billing turtles in 
'em.... [Balconies, 

Here iil-condition'd oranges abound.... [Stage. 

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. 

[ Tasting them* 
The inhabitants are cannibals I fear : 
I heard a hissing.... there are serpents here ! 
O, there the people are.. ..best keep my distance ; 
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; 
Our ship's well stor'd....in yonder creek we've laid hers 
His honour is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventuve ; lend him aid, 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 



142 PROLOGUE. 

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What, no reply to promises so ample ?.... 
I'd best step back.. ..and order up a sample. 



143 

EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES 

IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS 
BENEFIT. 



H.OLD ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your non- 
sense ; 
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
My pride forbids it ever should be said, 
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head; 
That I found humour in a piebald vest, 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

[ Takes off his maslb. 
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth; 
In thy black aspect ev'ry passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 



144 EPILOGUE. 

How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood, 
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd! 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
Whose only plot it is to break our noses; 
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities : 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew? 
May rosin 'd lightning blast me if I do 1 
No.. ..I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: 
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
Off! off! vile trappings a new passion reigns! 
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : 
Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds !....soft.... 

'twas but a dream. 
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat- 
ing; 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
'Twas thus that iEsop's stag, a creature blameless, 
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 



EPILOGUE. 145 

Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 

And cavill'd at his image in the flood. 

" The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick 

shanks ; 

* l They neither have my gratitude nor thanks : 

" They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! 

u But for a head.. ..yes, yes, I have a head. 

w How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 

u My horns ! I'm told horns are the fashion now." 

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish 'd ! to his view, 

Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. 

Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thundering from behind. 

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : 

He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 

He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. 

At length, his silly head, so priz'd before, 

Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 

Whilst his strong limbs compire to set him free, 

And at one bound he saves himself, like me. 

[Taking ajumfi through the stage-door, 
z 



146 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. 



WHAT! five long acts.. ..and all to make us wiser! 
Our authoress, sure, has wanted an adviser. 
Had she consulted me, she should have made 
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; 
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage 
Have empty 'd all the green-room on the stage. 
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; 
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking. 
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
What if I give a masquerade?. ...I will. 
But how? ay, there's the rub ! [/iausing']....Vve got 

my cue: 
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, 

you. [ To Boxes , Pit, and Gallery, 



EPILOGUE. 147 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses I 
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, 
Patriots in party-colour 'd suits that ride 'em. 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. 
These, in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
Thus 'tis with all.. ..their chief and constant care 
Is to seem every thing but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 

parade, 
Looking, as who should say, Dam'me! who's afraid? 

\Mimicking, 



148 EPILOGUE. 

Strip but this vizor*off and sure I am 

You'll find his lionship a very lamb. 

Yon politician, famous in debate, 

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 

Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, 

He turns old woman and bestrides a broom. 

Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 

And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 

If with a bribe his candour you attack, 

He bows, turns round, and whip.. ..the man's in black ! 

Yon critic, too.. ..but whither do I run? 

If I proceed, our bard will be undone I 

Well then, a truce, since she requests it too : 

Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. 



THE END. 



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